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My personal hospital-horror-story is a story from one of the most picturesque of the Greek islands. Icaria. In the summer of 2000 I was working there as a tour guide. It was the summer, when a ferry boat sank just off Paros because the captain had to watch a football match. The summer that the appearance of Harry Potter changed the face of the earth, the summer that I never slept more than 3 hours in a row. The summer that… but let’s not get off trail too much ;o)

I had not felt too well for a couple of days already, but due to an inhumane workload I could not really afford to pay attention to minor physical ailments. Anyway, on my day off I could not deny it anymore: I was really ill. My tonsils had taken the look of golf balls and were hovering in my throat leaving me in excruciating pain and fever.

Icaria is a lovely place. But then it should still have been counted among the developing countries… Believe me, it is not all that entertaining to drive over dirt roads for one hour and a half, trying to evade the goats, having a temperature of over 103°F, but I managed to get to “downtown” Agios Kirikos without killing anyone – not even myself by driving accidentally off one of the cliffs, as the streets did not have any fences…

In hospital an elderly doctor looked into my throat and said:

“As I can see, your tonsils have been already removed, so I am not sure what leaves you in this condition.”

Do I have to mention that I left the hospital as fast as my shaky legs allowed? One hour and a half drive back to my village – in the dark by that time of the day. On my return I was a wreck. I called the number of our village doctor who I knew was over on the island of Samos those days – I wanted to know when he was back. His wife picked up:

“Oriste?”

“Listen, it’s me, Stella, I feel really shitty, when will Stavros be back from Samos?”

“Oh, you poor girl!!! He’ll be back methavrio, how is it in English the morrow after?”

“Yeah…”

“But we have a guest – a study friend of my husband. He is a doctor as well and he will have a look at you. You sound awful, my dear!”

I almost collapsed with gratitude. The 10 minute drive was feasible. At Stavros’ house his wife let me in and I was greeted by the dottore. An Italian psychiatrist… My Italian is better than my Greek and I could explain much more vividly what was wrong with me. He looked into my throat and ascertained my assumption that I was in need of an antibiotic. I felt so relieved that I was finally sort of taken care of, that I started crying. He looked at me.

“You seeme very stress-ede, e?”

“Yes I am as a matter of fact, I never sleep, I dart back and forth at all possible and impossible times and ….”

The rest of my sentence drowned in sobs. He handed me two pills.

“Thos-e you tak-e when you are hom-e.”

I went hom-e, swallowed the pills and – BLANK.

When I woke up like 15 hours later, parched, stiff-boned and with all my clothes on I had a look at what I had taken the night before: a decent dose of Tavor!

When I could walk again I went to the farmacy and bought an antibiotic…